“Just me.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not today?”
“I need to see Weatherman Pete. Pete will give us the forecast.”
“What difference does it make in a sewer?”
Moley makes a whooshing sound like an express train. “You don't want to be down there when it rains. It's like God Himself pulled the chain.”
20
“Why are you so interested in the drains?” asks Joe. He motions me to sit with a mannered almost mechanical movement as though he's been practicing.
It's Monday morning and we're in his office, a private practice just off Harley Street. It's a Georgian house with black downspouts and white windowsills. The plaque on the door has a string of initials after his name, including a small round smiley face designed to make patients feel less intimidated.
“It's just a theory. The ransom was supposed to float.”
“Is that all?”
“Ray Murphy used to work in the sewers. Now he's missing.”
Joe's left arm jerks in his lap. There's a book lying open on his desk: Reversing Memory Loss.
“How's the leg?”
“Getting stronger.”
He wants to ask me about the morphine but changes his mind. For a few seconds the silence spreads out like thick oil. Joe stands and sways for a moment, fighting for balance. Then he begins a slow, deliberate walk around the room, each step containing a struggle. Occasionally, he drifts to the right and has to straighten.
Glancing around his office, I notice that things are slightly askew—the books on the shelves and files on the filing cabinet. He must be finding it harder to keep things tidy.
“Do you remember Jessica Lynch?” he asks.
“The U.S. soldier captured in Iraq.”
“When they rescued her she had no recollection of any events from the time of the ambush until she awoke in an Iraqi hospital. Even months afterward, despite all the debriefings and mental evaluations, she still couldn't remember. The doctors called it a memory trace, which is completely different from amnesia. Amnesia means you have a memory but something traumatic happens and you suddenly forget. In Jessica's case her brain never allowed her to collect memories. It was like she was sleepwalking.”
“So you're saying I might never remember everything that happened?”
“You might never have remembered. It didn't register.”
He lets the news sink in while I try desperately to push it away. I don't want to accept an outcome like that. I am going to remember.
“Have you ever been involved in a ransom drop?” he asks.
“About fifteen years ago I helped run an operation to catch an extortionist. He threatened to contaminate baby food.”
“So what do you plan for?”
“There are two types of drop—the long haul or the quick intervention. The long haul involves a complex set of instructions, making the courier jump through hoops, moving him around from A to B to C, stretching the resources of the police.”
“And the alternative?”
“Well it starts off the same way, sending the courier back and forth between public phone boxes, on or off buses, swapping directions . . . then suddenly, somewhere along the way, something happens. They strike hard and fast, radically changing the plan.”
“For example?”
“Back in the eighties a fellow called Michael Sams kidnapped a young estate agent, Stephanie Slater, and demanded a ransom. Stephanie's boss was the courier. It was a dark, foggy night in an isolated part of South Yorkshire. Sams left messages on telegraph poles and in public phone boxes. He moved the courier around like a chess piece through narrow country lanes until suddenly he stopped the car with a roadblock. The courier had to leave the money on a wooden tray on the edge of a bridge. Sams was down below. He pulled a rope, the tray fell down, and he escaped on a motor scooter along a muddy track.”
“He got away?”
“With £175,000.”
The Professor's eyes betray a glimmer of admiration. Like a lot of people he appreciates ingenuity but this wasn't a game. Michael Sams had already killed a girl.
“Would you have chosen Rachel to be the courier?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You can't expect to make rational decisions when it's your own child involved. They must have nominated Rachel. It's what I would have done in their shoes.”
“OK, what else would you have done?”
“I would have prepared her. I would have gone over the different scenarios and tried to get her ready.”
“How?” Joe points to an empty chair. “Imagine Rachel is sitting here now. How would you prepare her?”
I stare at the empty chair and try to picture Rachel. There were three coffee cups in my kitchen sink. Rachel was with me. Who else? Aleksei perhaps. They were his diamonds.
Closing my eyes I can see Rachel in black jeans and a gray pullover. Until now her appearance has melted into vagueness because of her pain but she's an attractive woman, rather bookish and sad. I can see why Aleksei was drawn to her.
She has her legs together and a soft leather satchel on her lap. Scraps of plastic and confetti-like foam are scattered on the kitchen floor.
“Remember, this is not a done deal,” I say. “This is a negotiation.”
She nods at me.
“They want you to follow blindly but we cannot let them dictate terms,” I tell her. “You have to keep insisting on assurances that Mickey is alive. Keep asking for proof. Say you want to see her and speak to her.”
“But they'll say we have the hair and bikini to prove it.”
“And you'll say they prove nothing. You just want to be sure.”
“What if they want me to drop the ransom somewhere?”
“Don't do it. Demand a straight exchange—Mickey for the diamonds.”
“And if they don't agree?”
“It's no deal.”
Her voice is as fragile as spun glass. “What if they don't bring Mickey? What if they want the diamonds first?”
“You say no.”
“They'll kill her.”
“No! They'll claim that she's alone or hungry or running out of air or water. They'll try to frighten and bully you—”
“But what if . . .” her voice catches, “. . . what if they hurt her?”
I can almost see the penny dropping.
She sobs. “They're going to kill her, aren't they? They'll never let her go because she can identify them . . .”
I cover her hands with mine and make her look at me. “Stop! Pull yourself together. Right now Mickey is their most valuable asset.”
“And afterward?”
“That's why we have to dictate the terms and you have to be ready.”
On my feet now, I stand behind her. “OK, let's practice what you're going to say.” I pull out my cell phone and dial. The phone in front of her begins to ring. I nod toward it.
Uneasily she flips open the receiver. “Hello?”
“DITCH THE FUCKING WIRE!”
She looks up at me and stutters, “What . . . what . . . do you mean?”
“NOW, BITCH! DITCH THE WIRE OR I KILL MICKEY. RIGHT NOW.”
“I'm not . . . I'm not wearing a wire.”
“DON'T LIE TO ME. Dump it out the window.”
“No.”
“SHE'S DEAD. YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE.”
“I'll do whatever you say. Anything. Please. I'm doing it . . .”
Rachel is shaking. I take the phone from her hands and terminate the call.
“OK, he didn't know you had a wire. He bluffed you. You should have called his bluff.”
Rachel nods and takes a deep breath.
We go through the rehearsal again. I want her to be polite and forceful without being confrontational. Disagree but don't challenge. Delay.
“Tell them you're scared. You're new to this. You're nervous. They want control so let them think you're vulnerable.”